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Seen plenty of far off faces
removed from themselves,
layer after insipid layer of the "free world"
just trying to fit inside itself.
Matryoshka dolls
painted in the fashion of a Mona Lisa.

My darlin,
deep down are you smiling?
If I touched you would paint chips curl upward
like arms made of wet paint
I am peeling back with no friction.
Something certain to be there
but cannot be touched
something I feel so sure to be in want of.
If  only I knew what it was.

I am eight keys
of a singular octave,
in a stairway of pianos stretching from here
to the sun.
Much like the visible spectrum
clamoring to amount
to all there is.
So much of the world, ourselves included, fumbling in the dark,
unseen
but never untouched.
 Oct 2013 ethyreal
Nat Lipstadt
Created June 1st, 2011

I am not gay.
I am not straight.
I am not curved,
or warped or woofed
I am bent, cylindrical,
a burnt human.

but not weak, nah!

tempered stronger than
furnaced scarred,
hard-stained steel,
a fire shaped child of El.

The sum of,
the product of,
the multiple divisions of:

my hard-on
experiential, existential
hand to hand
combat learning,
life's red copper burnishing,
and my very own
genetic, tantric
commanded tablets,
my natural earnings,

and I guess I am just like
{you, man}


obedient factotum to the
twists and turns of the
curve ***** and spitters
life pitches at my head,
that end up as
body blows.

multiple contusions outside
worn with pride inside,
I award myself a
medal of honor,
and elect myself,
Most Valuable Person,
an All Star of David,
for having survived
one more battle scarred
game day,

and I guess I am just like
{you, man}


when I awake,
in the raceway courses
of my veins,
the speedways to my
heart and brain,
runs the bitter herbs taste
of fear of how
I shall yet again,
earn this day,
my body's keep and shelter,
earn some table scraps of
peace of mind,
that I may lay
myself down to sleep
if ever so briefly,

and I guess I am just like
{you, man}


When I prowl the mid of night,
the fever of combat fear,
my skin sears,
and there is no narcotic
that anesthetizes
even surficial  
the anxiety,
the ailment of
melancholia
that hallmarks my soul,
the overflow of which
spills over the ****
of my vocabulary

So every new day
is a new year,
and I start the diet
of my soul
yet again

and I guess I am just like
{you, man}


Once I was a soldier
who wore the
black and white stripes
of the uniform that stretches
to the four corners
of the world.

I used to sway to the R&B;
of someone else's tunes,
prostrate fell to my knees
speaking someone
else's words,
touched my forehead
to the ground.

but the melancholia that
sterling hallmarks my soul
never disappeared and
renewal was a gift
denied and refuted,
by the lack of clarity
to which I was not
part and parcel

and l guess I am just like
{you, man}


Took a new oath,
swore allegiance
to the alliance of
I don't give a ****
and acceptance of
the infection of
flawed humanity
inside of me
lies buried in the
permafrost of my mind,

So every new day
is a new year,
and I start the diet
of my soul,
yet again

The first new words
daily uttered,
chanted with vehemence
of an out loud prayer
to no one but we two,
me and you, man,
unashamedly clear and enunciated
not mumbled,
not muttered,
seven parts blessing,
three parts curse,
are these words.

l guess,
I am just like
{you, man}


Found and founded a brotherhood of me and
{you, man},
one mantra,
you and I are just alike,
now we have a new
holy romantic empire,
we are human
{you, man}
slaves to
nothing,
no one
but each other.
How I used to write...when I was....
 Oct 2013 ethyreal
Marian
Sun rays slant through the forest air,
There's a boy sitting on the ground with dragonflies in his hair,
The little animals come up to him;
Because they're not afraid of him.
A little fawn sits behind his back,
Nothing doth he lack,
Even rabbits sit beside him;
He always smiles and is never grim.
All of his forest friends--the animals trust him,
To calm them he'll sing them a hymn,
In the middle of the forest sits he;
As the sun rays slant through every tree.
He always is so gentle and kind,
And has such a creative mind,
That is why the animals trust him;
And say! You've guessed it! His name is Tim.

*~Marian~
Dedicated to my Dad, Timothy!! :) <3
Yes, this is dedicated to my Dad!! :) <3
I hope he enjoys it!! :) ~<3
Recently I’ve been censoring myself
Because the things I imagine you doing to me
Are somewhat brutal
And the fact that I enjoy the thoughts
Disturbs me.

The thought of your hands slapping
Things that have only ever been caressed
Excites me.
You make me hurt
All over, and inside.
 Oct 2013 ethyreal
Tim Knight
Trigger finger 13 is hung
from his shoulders,
though not by hooks found in the butchers book,
but with pride and a sweating brow,
one that can survey the terrain with a quizzical eye,
analysing rustling in bushes only 3 clicks away.

Bible tattoos tattooed below the tribal
ones,
and a 13 on the finger used most
when they charge and come.
FROM coffeeshoppoems.com
I didn't want to believe them;
I wished to maintain my faith
in who I thought she was;

I was proven wrong.
Oh, so very wrong.
Over and over again.

They were right about her
and I should have listened
instead of assuming I knew her.

Word spreads much like a wildfire:

"Drunk on Ego and rather mean,"
I fear they were right about her.

"Narcissistic **** of a basket case,"
I should have listened to every word.

"Fun, until you get too close and start to care,"
it seems they knew how it goes;

"Gets under another to get over herself"

Okay, to be fair,
on one hand
everyone needs a rebound sometimes,
but,
on the other hand,
she never stops bounding
from one
to the next
to the next
and back
then to the next
and et cetera
ad infinitum;

both behind your back
and right to your face.

That ****
will never be the same;
sure glad it's not mine
to maintain.

Such a shallow temptress.
Such a public Temple.

That ****
will never be the same;
sure glad she's not mine
to entertain.

I covet not her Temple,
for few exist more heavily trafficked
that don't charge palpable admission
for maintenance; unless, of course,
that's where the copious volumes of ***** come in.

Word seems to spread
quicker than her legs
for her latest fancy,
which is really no small feat.

Word seems to get around,
just as what's said of the fair Strumpet;
and, unfortunately but unsurprisingly,
they are ******* right about her.
DISCLAIMER:

I care very very little for use of the word "****",
but I care even less for the object of this write
and I feel it is warranted in this context
(in referring to the body part as well as the quality of one's character)
and I reserve it as my right as an artist to express my thoughts purely,
even through quite impure language.

While I apologize if that word particularly offends you,
I don't apologize for my expression of my ascertainment of my headspace.
That said;

GET OUT OF MY HEAD, YOU ******* *****.

Ok. I'm better now. :)
Sorry for the patches of dark and angry stuff I keep posting.
I don't enjoy creating it, but it is deeply cathartic if I don't hold myself back, and moreover if I share it and get feedback, or even just acknowledgement.
Let your rage explode
Do not try
To target or control it.
You are too wise
And real
And wonderful
To let it consume you
Leaving ashes in its wake,
So let it break,
For now.
Allow the ugly out,
Break, throw, shout
Until you can taste the angry blood
In the back of your throat,
Behind your teeth.
Underneath
all the anger is your healing,
It will surface,
You will start to come back.
You have to fully release the hate
Before you can let it go,
Otherwise, you will only purge it's shadow,
Leaving the real thing
Crouched in a corner of your hurting heart,
Waiting for a chance
To do more damage,
To destroy you.
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